Not for the Lack of Trying
by weebwritings
Summary: Normal people had a plan for their life; where they would go to school, what their job would be, where they would live. Arthur had no such plans. In fact, he hadn't really thought he would make it to his twenty-third birthday.


Arthur hadn't planned to make it to his twenty-third birthday, and yet here he was, though not for the lack of trying. Oh no, he had tried, tried and tried some more. Alcohol, pills, the two combined… nothing really seemed to work and when he was slumped forwards over the kitchen bench, drunk beyond comprehension, he sometimes had to wonder if maybe he were immortal. Well, that or God had one wicked sense of humour.

So here he was, try, try, trying again, the toes of his sneakers just jutting out over the edge of the blissful fall into nothing. He had never tried jumping off of a bridge before. He supposed it wouldn't really hurt with the six or seven beers he'd had just before (and a shot of something stronger for courage), he would just feel the tug of gravity at his guts when he fell and then - hopefully - nothing. All that was left to do was taking that final step over the edge and he would be off scot free-

"Lad, what are ye doing up there?"

Arthur hadn't expected anyone to be out this late, much less the owner of that thickly accented voice. He didn't dare turn around.

"M'gunna take a dip." His words came off slurred and behind him the voice sighed.

"Well, that's a stupid idea if I've ever heard one. Get down from there."

"Make me!"

"Are ye drunk?"

"I just bloody well might be. So what?"

Two strong arms suddenly gripped him from behind and hoisted him off of the edge. He gave an indignant cry, not too sure what he was angrier for; the fact that he had been lifted off of the ledge like a child, or the fact that his little plan would not play out tonight.

"Oi, you let me go you big brute!"

"Nay," the owner of the voice manoeuvred him so he was carrying him almost bridal style, "not a chance in hell."

The owner of the voice was Allistor, the one person on God's green earth that Arthur had wanted to avoid tonight. Particularly tonight. That was the bitch of small town life Arthur supposed, and he snorted at the thought.

"What's so funny?"

"You…"

As soon as he had Arthur in his arms Allistor had begun to walk the way he had been headed before encountering (and interrupting) the blonde.

"Aye, and why am I funny?"

"I dunno… you just are."

The Scotsman grunted and fell into silence for a moment before he asked, "What were ye doing up there?"

"I told you, I was going for a dip."

"I'm being serious," Allistor stated.

"So am I," he shot back.

Allistor sighed and the rest of the journey to Allistor's two-bedroom flat was spent in relative silence.

When they reached the front door, he set Arthur down and rummaged around in his pocket for his keys.

"How did you know where I'd be?"

Arthur was asking some pretty damn cohesive questions for a thoroughly sloshed fellow.

"I didn't."

"Then who told you where I'd be?"

"No one."

He unlocked the door and stepped back to let Arthur past. He caught his foot on the threshold and almost went sprawling when, for the second time that night, strong arms gripped him from behind, saving him the humiliation of eating carpet. He righted himself and shrugged away the help.

"Why am I here then?"

"Because I know yer habits by now, lad."

He shut the door behind himself and flicked on light switches as he moved deeper off into his home. Arthur stood there in the centre of the living room and swayed slightly. He wished he was drunker. If he was, it would at least make everything easier. He could blubber to Allistor without the fear of remembering, pass out on his couch and vomit it all up tomorrow morning while his eyes burned and his head pounded. As it was, he just stood there dumbly until Allistor returned carrying blankets and pillows in his arms.

"M'not sleeping with you?"

"Like I said, I know yer habits. Ye ain't sleeping in me bed drunk like that, ye'd likely vomit on my carpet tomorrow morning. Here, lay down and get comfortable."

He did as he was told and allowed the blankets to be draped over him with minimal amount of fuss. When he was settled he was asked if he needed anything else to which he replied a bucket (which was kept out of sight next to the couch for that very request).

"You know… the world's such an ugly place…"

"Mmmm. Are you comfy?"

"Yeah. But… like… I mean, so ugly. People are so bad."

"Aye, we're monsters. I'm leaving ye a bottle of water."

"Thanks. You, though… you make it better somehow."

"I'm touched, Arthur."

"I'm being serious," he said quietly.

"So am I," came the reply.

Once more they lapsed into silence. Allistor went and got him a bottle of water from the fridge and placed on the ring-marked coffee table in front of him. Arthur watched as a drop of condensation slid down the side of the bottle. His head swam in an all too unpleasant manner.

"You make it better, somehow."

"Then why did I find ye on top of that bridge?"

"Because."

"Because why?"

He met Allistor's gaze and frowned, "Because I'm one of those ugly people. One of the monsters."

The two men stared at each other for a heartbeat more.

"If ye need anything, just yell. Yer bucket's right there and yer water's right here. I turned the heat on as well, so ye should be warm."

The redhead turned and clicked off a nearby lamp, sending the room into darkness. Arthur could hear him heading for the short corridor that connected the lounge room to the bedrooms.

"Thank you." He said into the darkness.

"Yer welcome."

"No, seriously! I was getting really, really dizzy up there."

A pause, then a sigh, "Go to sleep Arthur."

And he did.


End file.
